again--

"How little the days bring, that really touches the heart! Oftentimes
this void is not at all oppressive. A mist seems to enfold me, which is
already beginning to grow less dense and be gilded by the first rays of
the sun, which I cannot yet see. A soft, delightful expectation
pervades my soul, like the anticipation of very pleasant events,
experiences, and enlightenments, which will undoubtedly soon take
place. But when another day has passed in monotonous waiting, I lie
down on my bed with a very heavy heart, and think: suppose nothing
should happen? Suppose all your hoping and waiting should only befool
you? For I have long understood that our wishes can give no claim to
their gratification, our longings no right to their fulfillment. We all
strive toward perfection, and remain in our incompleteness.

"But there is so much beauty, depth, and joy accessible to me, even in
my limited sphere--and yet I am unable to attain it--am still far from
it--the greatest happiness is beyond my reach.

"To-day I stood a long time before a shop where medical and
philosophical works were displayed in the window. If I only had
money enough, I would buy all whose titles please me and read them
hap-hazard, as the man in the fairy tale ate through a mountain of
pan cakes and found priceless treasures. But the little I earn by
painting--

"I have again looked over the contents of our book shelves which I
already know by heart. Even in our great authors, I do not find what I
seek and need. Then I mechanically took down a volume of Becker's
History of the World and read a portion of it. If I only had some
connection with those long past wars, political revolutions, and
historical events! But the happy betrothal of our pretty little
neighbor, our landlord's daughter, is really more important to me at
this moment, than that Ninus married Semiramis, and Cleopatra had
several husbands. Does not very much the same farce go on under
different names, in other lands and costumes, a farce whose origin and
purport we understand no better when we have read all these fourteen
volumes?--

"And yet, if we did understand, could we endure life? Is not the fancy
that we have something very important and necessary to do, is not this
delusion perhaps the best in existence? At the theatre we ought to
forget, as much as possible, that the actors behind the footlights are
rouged and obey the prompter's voice instead of the dictates of their
o